


Disquiet

by ianavi



Series: Short Ends [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Almost Caught, Desire, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:10:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3289850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianavi/pseuds/ianavi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surely the indulgence of this exercise in sensuous cataloging would lead to more lost hours and days of futile fantasizing, emotional and bodily frustration, unsatisfying onanistic incidents that have become a daily personal embarrassment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disquiet

He solemnly stood and allowed the freezing cold wind to wipe across his features, combing through his hair, invading his nostrils and blistering his lips. The snow covered heath stretched far ahead and he felt a pleasant calm as his eyes roamed the whiteness unfocused, his ears barely registering the shifting frequencies of gusts and swirls of wind, creaks of laden branches, sweeps of layers upon layers. His eyes watered and he felt as if momentarily cleansed, the severe cold seeping through the seams of his coat, wrapping itself around his bare wrists, piercing through the soles of his shoes, their leather cracking softly under the accumulating flakes.

Alone in a landscape of white and grays, devoid of shadow, air at once empty and a swirl of crystal specks. It all felt far from organic, living. A void in the city, in the day. He calculated how long it would take at this rate of precipitation, him still as a statue, for the snow to reach his slightly shaky knees, his now quiet groin, his slowly pounding heart. A burial in calm. Far in the distance a crow, a snap of a branch. Even farther the hum of traffic, splatter of boots and tires over asphalt. He took a slow shallow breath and allowed his stinging eyes to close. A respite in a snowstorm. With an exhale that turned into a pained cough he shook off his coat and started back towards the park gates.

Closing the flat door behind him he was resolute in remaining composed for as long as possible, even as he felt the warmth, the smells, the traces, the familiarity of the empty room envelop him. Shaking off the coat, the shoes, the scarf, the snow from his hair, rubbing his palms against each other. Now he truly felt the cold. 

The lull of the snowy heath was still there to turn his mind to as he knelt in front of the fireplace stacking and prodding, striking a match and watching it catch the end of a crumpled newspaper. The calmness persisted and his body gradually warmed so he settled on his heels, turning the matchbox in one hand and tracing its edges with his fingertips, watching as the fire enveloped the wood, breathing in the warmth that made his ears and nose itch uncomfortably. He let his senses sink into the convoluted curling of the flames and the uneven rhythm of cracking and settling logs.

A startling taste of iron on his tongue shook him from this interlude. He realized the dry skin of his bottom lip had cracked and brought the back of his right hand to press on it. Suddenly there was a surge of sounds and scents pushing past the calmness and shaking him from within. He refocused his eyes on the now dark room, shapes of furniture jittery outlines in the fire's glow. Behind him the count of a ticking watch left casually on the desk. He knew this watch, saw it daily, heard it measure quiet moments in the flat, knew its owner wound it daily and infrequently left it behind. He had on occasion thought of taking it into his hand and running his fingertips along the leather strap, feeling the indents, visualizing how it wound around a wrist sturdier than his own, how it rubbed against skin. If he were to wear it himself it would slide and scrape along his skin, flakes of the other man's epidermis settling on his own. He shivered and tried to shake off the thought, the want. But it was of no use, intense longing unfurled within him and his senses reached out to all traces of the other man in the flat they shared, personal articles he was careful to avoid touching sure it would lead to him taking them away to his room and that was something John would notice. Has noticed on occasion when items of dirty laundry "disappeared" or half-eaten slices of toast, biting teeth deliciously outlined, were "thrown away". And there were so many traces, objects, scrapes and clues of habitual use. Dog-eared books, toothpaste squashed, pencils bitten, shoes well worn, shirt collars frayed... that one stained bedsheet that occupied his thoughts for days after only a brief glimpse.

With a throaty sigh he turned towards one of the armchairs knowing its upholstery retained an imprint of a sturdy body and miserably shuffled towards it on his knees. In the glow of the fire he could just make out curves in the fabric. Careful not to disturb it he leaned his face almost touching the surface and deeply inhaled through his nose. Cloth, dust, skin, sweat. With another sigh he squeezed his eyes shut and allowed his lips to lightly brush across the worn textile tracing a shapely impression. If only he could taste the man in the traces he left behind. With sudden abandon he brought up his hands and slid them across the seat, sinking his face into the armchair and rubbing his chest and his loins against it. Sweating and already so hard, so desperate. He groaned loudly angry with himself. Surely the indulgence of this exercise in sensuous cataloging would lead to more lost hours and days of futile fantasizing, emotional and bodily frustration, unsatisfying onanistic incidents that have become a daily personal embarrassment. He unfastened his trousers and pushed them down, thrusting himself into the rough texture of the fabric, rubbing himself against it lustfully even though it was slightly painful. Ashamed but not able to restrain himself he whimpered through an almost immediate orgasm. The man reduced to a base animal, slobbering over a piece of furniture, the calm snow covered heath a distant memory.

He heard steps and with panicked and twitchy hands attempted to straighten his clothes. A rattle of keys and the door of the flat opening. The light fixture switched on and his eyelashes fluttered nervously. He spun around and quickly picked himself up from the floor swaying unsteadily as his stood in front of the soiled armchair.

"Is that blood on your face? What happened?"


End file.
